


In the Midwinter Cold

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean run into a case by accident. The snow's getting thicker, the night's getting colder and soon they have no choice but to get closer (and figure out how to kill the cause.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Midwinter Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atanih88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/gifts).



> SpnJ2xmas present for atanih88! (apologies for repost, previous one had html tags etc left in)
> 
> With a huge amount of thanks to my beta Scarletscarlet. All mistakes that remain are my own.

  
  
  
  
They're silent. Sam's been pissed off since the morning when Dean had been a complete and utter dick, and they're still not on speaking terms. They've been driving for several solid hours today, the silence a tangible quality between them. Dean has been staring straight out ahead at the road, not even bothering with music, and Sam has been making no effort to hide that yeah, he thinks Dean is a fucking jerk. When the snow starts falling it's nothing more than a minor inconvenience at first, soft flakes swirling out of the sky, heavy and quiet whirling specks in the cold winter's air. In the car, with the heater blowing hot air right at them – Dean begrudges turning the heating on, claims the Impala doesn't like it, but Sam isn't losing his toes because Dean is a tightass about his car – it feels like they're all alone in the world, just them and the snow enclosing them in a white bubble.  
  
  
After an hour or two it starts to creep Sam out. It's getting darker now, almost night, and the visibility is going to shit. There's a tiny furrow in Dean's brow as though he's worried as well, though Sam knows he'll be damned if he's going to admit it. They haven't seen anywhere habitable in miles; they passed a motel about twenty miles back and since then they haven't seen as much as another car. Sam racks his memory, tries to remember this route, where the next motel will be. But he's been travelling too long, been down too many roads (and now he's earwormed himself, this day just gets better and better,) and none of this reminds him of anything.  
  
  
A shiver slides through him, and he's not sure if it's just getting colder or if there's something weird going on. Nothing about this feels natural, and when he turns to stare out the window again, he's struck by how high the snow is. It's piled in thick blankets along the side of the road, specks melting on the tarmac of the road, then crystallizing. There's too much of it, there's something wrong. This isn't normal weather. He turns to Dean, since it's stupid to hold on to a grudge in circumstances like this. Dean's brow is furrowed, and Sam suspects that he's maybe known about this for some time, and the anger floods back hot and heavy to sit in his chest, ugly and strong. Screw him.  
  
  
"We should turn back," he says. "There's been no cars, no landmarks, nothing."  
  
  
Dean stares straight ahead. "We can't, Sammy," he says eventually, his voice soft and dark. "If we turn back we're definitely done for."  
  
  
Sam looks at him disbelievingly, unsure what the hell he's talking about. "Dude, it's the sensible thing," he says. "If this isn't natural, if there's something causing this ,it's only going to have a limited sphere of influence. No way it can control more than a certain amount of land. Nothing has that much power."  
  
  
He gets a long look slanted at him for his pains, Dean's eyes opaque and impenetrable for once. He shivers again; it's definitely gotten colder. Dean flicks up the heater a little bit more, stops the car and hauls out the rest of the few clothes that they keep in the trunk. When he gets back into the car and passes them to Sam, there's frost rimed on his hair, a dusting of snow on his shoulders, and Sam sees with a slow feeling of horror that his jacket is completely stiff with the cold. This is as far from natural as it gets.  
  
  
Dean finally replies. "Sam, how long do you think we've been travelling?"  
  
  
Sam shrugs uncomfortably. "We left the last town about three hours ago?" he hazards.  
  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "We should've passed Edmonton an hour ago in that case. There's been nothing. Nothing at all, and I think we've been travelling longer than we think." He nods at the Impala's dashboard, Sam glances at it, sees the gas light flicker on and off. "I refilled before we left ----.” Dean's voice is quiet. "We're almost out. If we turn back now, no way we'll make it, even if whatever's doing this lets us go and I don't think it's going to do that."  
  
  
Sam is silent, ice water in his veins. Dean's fingers are gripped tight on the steering wheel, white knuckled and tense. This is their job, this is their life. They hunt things like this, but the cold is something different. Creeping and indomitable, nature reasserting itself. They both hate the cold, always have, but Sam hates the cold even more than he once did. Too many long nights, the heating off, clothes piled on top of you, then blankets over that, pressed up close to conserve warmth because a shitty motel decided to save money or its piece of shit boiler packed up again. Sam leans over, buffets Dean's shoulder with his own.  
  
  
There's no point borrowing trouble; he knows that better than anyone else. They're going to be fine. He doesn't bother fumbling for his phone or his laptop. There's not going to be any wi-fi or signal out here. He has the weird feeling that they're treading on the edges of the world, as though just a fraction of an inch away the normal world is carrying on, like cars are there on the very far edge of his consciousness. He wonders if it's even snowing on that side. They've stopped again, chosen to struggle into their spare clothes now. No point saving them for later, many layers close to the skin and put on early are much better.  
  
  
He has to laugh, though, at the sight of Dean struggling into four t-shirts and then pulling on two long-sleeved shirts until he could shrug his jacket over it all. Sam's not much better off, almost gives Dean a hernia from laughing so much as he tries to squirm into a second pair of jeans in the admittedly limited space in the front seat. When he sits back up, not bothering to button them, he pulls on more clothing until he's wearing almost everything he owns. The air is warmer and he doesn't know if it's the clothing or the laughter. It's not as stupid as it sounds. The only things that can manipulate the weather like this, in his experience, can be pretty damn good at messing with emotions as well.  
  
  
When they start up the car again, there's silence between them again, and the car takes ages to sputter into life under Dean's hands. The snow has built up even in the time that they've stopped. If Sam wanted to, he could open the window and scoop up a handful, taste the cool crisp sharpness of ice water on his tongue. He leaves it outside where it belongs, turns back to catch Dean's eyes. They both know that if they don't get out soon, they're unlikely to live the night. Cold as bitter and intense as this sinks into you, gets under your skin, until you'll dream of sleeping, and curl up in the welcoming feather-white bed in front of you.  
  
  
They drive onwards, like they always do. Don't stay still unless you have to. Sam remembers vaguely that he read somewhere that dodging under gunfire was stupid. Zigzagging made you a harder target to hit but it slowed you down enough to offer yourself as a vulnerable soft spot. Dean's never held with dodging, and he drives straight on now, and Sam flexes cold hands, tucks them into his layers, dreams of hot water bottles, and working heaters. Fifteen minutes pass, and he has to say it because Dean sure as hell won't. The choice is clear. They can keep driving and nothing will change, or they can stop the car, use the small amount of fuel that they have to keep the heating running as long as possible, hope they can last until daylight. He knows instinctively that if they can last until then, they have a chance of surviving. Whatever this is can control their movements, can seemingly expand the world around them and trap them in this desolate landscape, but he's fairly sure it can't actually stop the sun from rising.  
  
  
He gives it another few minutes, grabs Dad's book despite the fact that they know it inside out by now, and a demi-God or spirit that could control the weather and space probably wouldn't be easily forgotten. It's calming though to feel the pages underneath his hands, and to imagine that his dad would be proud of what they're doing now. Sure enough there's no mention of anything that could possibly be what they're up against, and he shuts it with a snap, looks at Dean, at the stiff tense lines of his neck, the gritted edge of his jaw, at how goose-pimples are rising in unlikely places, shivering up on his skin like they are on Sam's.  
  
  
They'd fought over the gloves, and Dean had won ,of course, tricked Sam with rock, paper, scissors because apparently even old dogs could learn new tricks, had made Sam wear them, claiming he couldn't drive with gloves on, had threatened to throw them out the window if Sam didn't stop being such a little bitch and just put them on. Dean's hands are beginning to look painful; he's never had the best of circulation, and they're pinched white as he holds onto the wheel. It ‘s ridiculous, Sam thinks that they didn't have their own gloves, and he leans over and takes one of Dean's hands, warms it between his own briskly rubbing against chilled skin that he can’t feel. Dean takes his eyes off the road for one second, and looks at Sam in a way that leaves him confused, feeling like a stranger in a strange land like for a second the snowy landscape isn't the weirdest thing about this night.  
  
  
He lets Dean tug his hand away, now flushed pink over the fingers, red and scratchy from the wool, and says the obvious. "We need to stop."  
  
  
If they stop they can hunt this thing, or give it their best shot. They have a trunk full of weapons; surely, they can take the fight to whatever this is, on their terms, not just drive until they can out of fuel. Or at least they can hunker down and conserve warmth. Looking at the ice that begins to creep over the windows, he has to admit that one of those plans is more valid.  
  
  
If they leave the car at night, they'll die. It almost finishes him just retrieving the weapons from the trunk, bashing at it with clumsy fingers almost in panic before it opened. When he gets back in, he's blue and shaking with cold, and Dean is pissed, but when is he not pissed these days?  
  
  
He feels warmth on his face as he sits there and gasps in the relatively hot air. Outside the air was like sharp tiny daggers jabbing into his throat when he sucked it in, freezing him from the inside out. The warmth on his face is Dean's hands, and he gets how cold he must be, if Dean's hands are warmer than him. The stretch of his facial muscles is almost painful now. If he had to guess, the temperature out there it wouldn't even be within waving distance of zero.  
  
  
There's no need to debate their actions. Sam crawls into the back first, waits for Dean to join him. The back of the car was small when Sam was a growing teen, angry about always being in the back, kicking Dean's chair from spite and just to be a dick. Now he's a grown man, and his grown ass brother is clambering in as well, because if they don't learn to share body heat like good little children, then someone is going to find two handsome corpses in the morning. What's small and cramped for one person over six feet tall is like a sardine tin for two of them crammed in together. And yeah some things he doesn't forget from being a child, like the fact that Dean is a fucking monster when it comes to sharing space. He can't sit still, can't just lie there, has to squirm and shift, and when Sam complains, out comes the 'pot, kettle, black' accusations. Which maybe have a little bit of truth to them, but he doesn’t squirm nearly as much as Dean. After the third elbow to the ribs, he shoves him hard. Fighting may generate body heat but it's also pretty pointless in their situation. Dean shoves him back but it’s half-hearted.  
  
  
The real problem is simple and neither of them wants to say it, neither of them wants to be the first person to admit it. Being enclosed isn’t exactly fun for them, not with the snow outside, gentle menacing whiteness surrounding them, humans in a tin can, and Dean, Dean can never just take the easy way. It’s simpler for Sam to surround him, but the tightness in Dean’s lips and eyes is evident. Sam gets colder, faster. He thinks it might be something to do with hell, the easy confident slide of fingers that burn to the bone, reach deep inside and trace your veins with ice. Dean doesn’t know the details, (Sam doesn’t think he could ever articulate them,) but he sees the results, gets the bigger picture. He doesn’t need to know why Sam sometimes wears thermals, will never get the iced coffee even in hot weather, just needs to know that he does.  
  
  
He tries once again to tuck Dean down, but there’s not that much difference between them, not really and Dean wriggles free easily with an impatient look on his face, stares at him for a long moment, face indecipherable, then picks up the ratty old blanket they keep in the back. “Dude,” he says, carefully neutral, “really stop worming around or I will kick you in the balls and then laugh.”  
  
  
He makes a face, climbs into the front again and slides the seat backwards, actually reducing the available space. Sam sees what he’s doing though, shifts so he’s on his side with his legs awkwardly curled up, and lets Dean get down beside him, braced between the seat and Sam. It can’t be comfortable for him, and Sam lets an arm flop over him and pulls him in close, thigh against thigh.  
  
  
Dean's cold face is right next to Sam's, his ears red with cold, and Sam pulls him over just a little like some sort of weird blanket.  
  
  
They don’t fit together easily, but when they’ve settled there’s an odd kind of symmetry to it, Dean’s leg curls familiarly around Sam, his feet tuck in, and Sam ducks his head down and feels Dean’s hair brush his face as he tugs the blanket around them better. Slowly they begin to warm. Sam gets colder easily, but when he heats he’s like a furnace or so he’s been told by most of the people he’s slept with. He can’t remember the last time they did this. They’d stopped sometime around when Sam was thirteen or fourteen- he remembers that Dean had always got it better than Dad had, had understood that Sam needed space to himself. But he can’t remember when they stopped. There must have been one night where there was just one bed left and Dean took the floor rather than share. But he doesn’t know which one.  
  
  
Then, when they were grown, there were times they’d shared again. Better one bed than none, after all. Sometimes needs must when the devil drives, a thought that even now makes him flinch somewhere deep inside. Dean feels it somehow, squeezes tighter for a second, then mumbles at him to stop being such a pussy, it’s not that cold. Dean is lying, of course, and he still sucks at it. They can’t sleep, far too dangerous to lie back and close their eyes, but Sam doesn’t want to talk either. Bad enough that they’ve got to be so close when huddling alone to lick their wounds is what they do; adding on a conversation that’s bound to piss off and hurt them both is just stupid. On the plus side of talking though, it might make it less awkward that they’re pretty much groping each other. Dean’s thoughts seem to run in the same direction, because he laughs suddenly and Sam can feel the vibrations run along his neck. It sort of tickles up this close. “Why, Miss Moneypenny,” Dean said, in quite possibly the worst Sean Connery impression ever. “You are a cheap date.”  
  
  
“Fuck off are you James Bond,” Sam says back, smiling in spite of himself.  
  
  
“I am. Just younger and hotter. I notice you’re not saying no to being called Miss Moneypenny though. Have a thing for the skirts?”  
  
  
Sam grins wickedly, safe in the knowledge that he can’t be seen in the dark, raises his voice a pitch, and purrs back, “Why, James, you’re so naughty.”  
  
  
He can feel Dean deciding whether to be horrified or amused, and settling for a snorted laugh. “That’s creepy as sin Sammy,” he says and Sam is content in a job well done.  
  
  
“I win,” he says smugly, and there’s quiet for a bit. It doesn’t seem to be getting colder, and Sam dares to hope that they'll come out of this without frostbite. He twists a tiny bit to look at the time on his phone, and it’s just a little bit past in three in the morning. No less than four hours to sunrise, he estimates. They can do four hours though, he's sure of it.  
  
  
Dean elbows him in the stomach again.  
  
  
"What do we think it is?" he asks, and Sam would bitch about Dean expecting him to do research even without the books, if this wasn't so serious. Dean's lips are chapped and sore, the cold doesn't exactly help, and Sam can almost hear him chewing on them.  
  
  
"I have no idea," he admits. He's been racking his brains since this started, trying to figure out what on earth had enough power to do this, to wrench them out of time and space and trap them in an endless winter. He'd gone through every weather god he could think of, but not many of them actually brought bad weather; that was the job of some types of evil spirits, but none of them had the reach that was displayed here. Nothing fitted the profile, at least nothing that fitted this area of the world as opposed to Norway a thousand years ago. He remembers the pagan Gods with their meadow-sweet and unseasonably warm Christmases, and he wonders, but they're dead a long time now.  
  
  
Dean breathes regularly through his nose, probably because he knows that it pisses Sam off. "I don't have a clue either. Wasn't there some Native American dude who brought the snow though? Don't think he was a god or anything, but he was something."  
  
  
It rings no bells, and he tells Dean that, who shrugs beside him. "Just a thought," he says, worms his fingers under Sam's jacket, and his t-shirts, insinuates his cold hand there, icy and strange, like that isn't fucking weird. Sam can't begrudge it though, his own hands aren't toasty, but he is wearing gloves so he's protected from the worst. Besides it isn't like this is the strangest thing they've done in the last month even, and it is probably the most profoundly fucked up thing in his life that he doesn't really care about that. Dean's hand warms up slowly, he's lying on the other one, and Sam shivers slowly under the touch, feels it run up his spine until he's awash with a sense of deja-vu. He shivers out from under memories too painful to touch, opens his eyes and looks at Dean. Whatever he does or doesn't remember about his time in hell, or his time as a soulless automaton, he remembers that he didn't have this, he didn't have Dean.  
  
  
It's rare that they're ever this close; they dance the dance of nominal adults, give each other space, the meagre amounts of privacy that are all they can spare, turning away at crucial moments. Sam will watch Dean fuck someone through a motel curtain, but he won't brush his teeth while his brother pisses two feet away. On some level, somewhere, he's sure they can't be the only people that would make sense to, but it's not like they've got anyone left who they could try and explain it to. Sam's filled with a hopeless, restless, anxious rage at the thought.  
  
  
It's when he lets his mind slip into the half-void he uses for thinking, without dropping all the way down into the yawning abyss that he knows is there, that he gets what's off about this. The atmosphere is all wrong. They're lying down, curled up against each other, like they're waiting to die. Taking no steps for their survival; displaying no hope at all. That’s not what Winchesters fucking do. Ever. He clenches his hands in frustration, feels the minute strokes along his back stop as Dean resonates his tension back to him.  
  
  
"It feels wrong," Sam says, but the words are thick in his mouth. How the fuck can he explain it without sounding like a fool. I felt too good, he imagines himself saying, so I knew it couldn't be right or normal. He knows the catch of it is that Dean would believe him without question, even though he might raise an eyebrow at Sam's definition of enjoying a situation. It's a hell of a lot easier to accept that something that feels good is bad, than vice versa. He can't help remembering the night Dean told him about the djinn, about the fucked up, beautiful, perfect life he had. How he'd known deep down it was too good to be true.  
  
  
"Come on," he says, sits up swiftly and pulls Dean up as well. Dean looks sleep-woozy, and Sam wonders how close they'd come to sleeping forever. Dean snaps out of it fast– he's good at that –and, after only a few seconds of bitching about nuisance brothers, he's up and ready to go, fumbling in his back pocket for his small flask of whiskey. Sam shakes his head, and Dean interrupts him. " ‘m not stupid Sammy, I know in the long run alcohol kills in the cold, but you're not getting me out of this car, unless I have a drop."  
  
  
Sam realises the futility of arguing about it, just watches with disapproving eyes as Dean takes a nip from the flask, then tucks it back into his pocket. He does laugh when Dean coughs and sputters with the shock of it.

  
  
"Jesus Christ that's cold," he says grumpily. Looks like the heat of the whiskey in his belly isn't sufficient to make up for the coldness of alcohol exposed to the cold and unable to freeze. He's fully awake now though, doesn't need to ask why Sam has roused them.  
  
  
Now that Sam concentrates he can feel it, feel the soft soothing mist in the car, cold as anything, threading its way through his mind and body, telling him that lying there and letting the snow take him was the best thing that he could do. Impatiently he wrenches his mind away from the thought, and finds Dean looking at him with narrowed eyes.

  
  
"What the fuck was that?" Dean asks, clearly having felt the same thing. He’s doing what he should've done from the first, winding his hands in oil stained rags, enough movement in them to hold a gun, but less exposed to the cold than before.  
  
  
"I don't know," Sam says, breathing in deep. The feeling is there, but dampened now, and he doesn’t want to think about what might be directing this. They don't even know if this is on purpose, whether some spirit or god or whatever has targeted them in particular, or if they were just stupid enough or unlucky enough to have stumbled into whatever supernatural hunt lurked near by. No matter, they’re awake now, and aware, and they can combat it like that. Dean's sorting through their weapons, selecting the silver knives, two guns, the salt, and some other herbs. He looks up, briefly. "If we don't know what the fuck it is, we'll just have to go standard," he says.

  
  
Sam nods, picks up his share of the weaponry with clumsy hands and then looks outside the car. As they've been sitting there, snow has surrounded them as high as can be, and Jesus, the spirit must've done a number on them to make them think that waiting this out was a good idea.  
  
  
Getting out of the car is surprisingly difficult. They have to wind down the windows, and eventually resort to using makeshift shovels to first break it away and then shove it away, and getting out the window is more difficult than he'd have thought. The snow towers around them. Smooth landscaped fields stretch out, gleaming in the faint tinge of moonlight, and Sam wonders how the fuck they're going to wade through this. If he's judging by the Impala's height, the snow around them must be at least five feet tall, if they break through the crust, they'll fall right in and probably freeze to death. They manage with difficulty to clamber up onto the Impala's hood, and then onto the roof, which under any other circumstances Dean would be pissed at beyond belief.  
  
  
Gazing out into the distance they see nothing. Not a figure stirs, even the trees are mostly buried under the snow, and there's almost nothing to be seen bar bleak, endless whiteness. There's no road anymore; it's been smoothed away under this heavy drift. When they turn and look behind them there's nothing there, either. In this black and white landscape, the stars and what's left of the moon shine with a cruel fierceness, casting just enough light to see by. It's terrifying in a way, completely alien and blank, like nothing he's ever seen in his life, as though they'd been picked up and taken to the moon of some other planet. He’s never seen snow like this before in his life, especially not in an area whose weather reports had suggested a light frost. This is something different. He looks up at the sky.  
  
  
It's Dean who dares to jump onto it, finds that it's almost solid under his feet. "We're going to have to risk it, Sam," he says, already looking into the distance. The cold is piercing. In the last few minutes of exertion they almost hadn't noticed it, and Sam had hoped that perhaps it wasn't as bad as they'd thought, but it's returned full force now that they're not moving. The wind is cold, whipping right through their clothes, and as bad as they'd thought it was inside, it's worse outside. Sam's nose is rapidly going numb, and his fingers aren't faring much better even with the gloves.”  
  
  
Sam has the presence of mind to grab Dean's hand. "This is stupid, dude,” he says, without preamble. “Seriously. Take one of them.” He strips off his left glove, wincing as the air hits his skin, and watches as Dean fumbles it on without protest. Sam steps closer. “Remember what we used to do as kids,” he says lightly. He slides his hand into Dean's pocket and grasps his cold right hand. Sharing even a minimum amount of heat gives them some protection from the wind-chill, and even if they can barely feel each other, it keeps them close.  
  
  
They're gripping their weapons tight, walking in silence; there’s no point in talking, when if you open your mouth, cold air whips into it. Sam's never been as grateful for having a full head of hair in his life. His face starts to ache, a dull throbbing pain under his cheekbones, pounding through his head, and he realises he's gritting his teeth too hard in the face of the wind and it's fucking up his sinuses. They'd headed along where they thought the road was in the lack of any particular direction to go in, and he couldn't even tell how long they'd been walking, high above the ground and almost aimlessly. Dean stops for a moment, presses freezing lips right up close to Sam's ear, and almost choking on sudden laughter, says 'Fuck, dude, we're literally both Legolas."  
  
  
Sam doesn't have the words to respond, just trudges forwards.  
  
  
After a time they get some indication that they're going in the right direction. There are voices on the wind, voices in a language neither of them recognise a word of, but the meaning is clear in every note of the crooning, unsettling tones. _Sleep_ it says, _lie down and sleep._ There's real force behind the words, real strength and neither of them are at full strength and heart at the moment. It's an effort to keep walking, to ignore the sinister urge that compels them to stop, to lay their heads down on the coldest pillow imaginable to give up. Then it all stops and they're left alone for a moment, and when the voices return, they can understand. Now it's asking them not to sleep, it's congratulating them on coming this far, praising them. _Hunters_ it sighs, and there's a longing in its voice, a dreadful longing that feels more terrifying than anything else that has happened. It wants them to come close.  
  
  
Sam can't feel the gun in his right hand anymore, has to glance at it every now and then to make sure his finger isn't too close to the trigger. He'd gone for the Glock, the best weapon in the cold, while Dean was toting the shotgun, broken over his arm, thankful they hadn't oiled and lubricated it for some time since the cold would have fucked it up pretty badly if so. He doesn't really want to discharge any shots; if they come up against whatever is causing this, every bullet could count, and his hands are way too cold to make reloading a practical option. Still the voices whisper and echo encouragement, futile praise, _come closer_ they urge _, I want you_ , and they keep on walking. This is the creature's turf, it's rules, and there is no point in trying to sneak up on it.  
  
  
Then they begin to feel vibrations running through the snow underneath them, and instinctively hold on tighter to each other. If the ground cracks open beneath them, they're dead. Then, as fast as any animal they'd ever seen move, a deer shoots by them, four legs lifting off the ground, wet eyes rolling in its head, terror in every line of its body, nimble and swift, a thing of beauty even in desperation. Fifty yards behind it lopes a lean wolf, fast catching up, its yellow eyes fixed and intent on the prize in front of it. While they watch in amazement, the wolf puts on a burst of speed, and runs the deer down. Sam doesn't realise that his gun is up and ready to shoot it. It doesn't seem right that something as fragile and beautiful as the deer should be ripped apart with such expert brutality. Before he could even think of taking a shot though, both wolf and deer vanish.  
  
  
He looks at Dean just to make sure he'd seen the whole thing and the disbelief is written all over his face as well. Twice more they witness similar incidents, a falcon swooping down on a rabbit, digging ferocious claws into, raking deep into it, killing its prey easily and with joy, then dissolving into thin air at the final stroke. Then a man runs by on foot, and yellow eyes like the wolf's blink at them for one long second, measuring them, before he turns and dashes onwards. He carries no knives, no guns, but his fingernails are sharpened and long, and his teeth are white and strong. They can't see his prey, but they know it must be there- he's focused and intent as he runs.  
  
  
There is nothing to be said, and no breath to say it with, they just look at each other in bemusement and struggle onwards. When the snow begins to crack under their feet, Sam's first thought bar run is that at least it’s a break from monotony. It splits open, and they both dash as fast as they can, feet heavy and slow. It feels as though they’re moving like old men across the landscape, and all too soon, the ground opens and they fall underneath it.  
  
  
When Sam first wakes the first thing he notices is the fire flickering in front of him, then second the walls of ice that surround them. In panic he gropes at his wrists, fearing to find them bound and leaving him hopeless. He looks wildly around for Dean, calls out loudly for him, but the cavern is empty, and his hands are warm enough to indicate that he’s been here far too long. He rubs his itching, tingling fingers, thinking that at least he hadn't lost any even if he was going to be plagued with chilblains for days after this, and picks up the gun that had been lying beside him. Walking away from the fire takes physical effort but he drives himself grimly onwards, calling as he goes. The sound echoes in the vastness of the cavern, filling it with whispered sighs of _Dean_. There is no reply, and he has to stumble on without guidance.  
  
  
When he comes to steps carved of ice he hesitates. They are grimly unforgiving, steep and terrifying, arching above his head. Only the thought of Dean being somewhere at the top of them gives him the strength to start climbing. When he reaches the top, he is back on the snowy landscape from which they'd fallen when the ground cracked, and Dean is there, wild-eyed, face red from exertion, tugging Sam down behind the doubtful cover of a tree.  
  
  
"I was right," he hisses at Sam, and there is something bright and gleeful in his face. "It _is_ the Native American dude. He picked you up and put you near the fire, then he healed me up." He displays the wholeness of his skin. "Seriously, I was gonna lose toes thanks to that shit."  
  
  
"What the hell," Sam says back, "why does he want us?"  
  
  
Dean shrugs. "I couldn't understand him, I just sort of got the gist of what he was saying. He likes hunters, said something about being a hunter. If we beat him, we get out of here. If not, then we're shit out of luck."  
  
  
He doesn't sound too unhappy about that Sam notices, and Dean reads his mind like he seems to do a lot. "Hell, it's a fair chance, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin. "More than we usually get."  
  
  
"He can control the weather," Sam points out, "and he can bend time and space. It's hardly a fair fight."  
  
  
Dean shrugs. "Like I said, it's a fairer fight than we usually get Sam. And he's not an evil son of a bitch, he's just doing this because it's what he does." He hesitates. "I sort of got the impression he doesn't usually allow pairs to undertake this. Unless they're, like, warrior brothers."  
  
  
Sam shrugs. "Well, we pretty much _are_."  
  
  
Dean grins at him. "Not that sort of warrior brother," he says and Sam stares at him.  
  
  
"You mean," he says completely flatly, "that even _spirits_ think that we're fucking? This shit is ridiculous."  
  
  
Dean laughs quietly. "If the look of the skirt fits, Moneypenny," he says with a grin. "Now c'mon. We haven't got much time until he comes back."  
  
  
Sure enough, across the landscape, there comes the thundering figure of the spirit, running swiftly in soft leather, long spear in one hand. He’s huge, but not out of the range of normal human height, just every inch muscled and toned until he’s literally a human god.

  
There’s a spear beside Sam, and he picks it up, hefts it in his hand and feels the solid weight of it. “Not bad.” he says thoughtfully,  
  
  
“No point using guns,” Dean says. “ I loosed off a few shots when I first saw him and they had no effect. Don’t think they can work in these parts, sort of makes sense I guess. This guy’s oldschool."  
  
  
They step out from the shelter of the tree, when the man catches up with them; circle round the huge figure, feinting occasionally, and Dean chances a thrust at him which is easily deflected. Then there is the counter attack, a whirling blade that threatens him with decapitation, and when Sam leaps in to take his turn he is easily menaced in his own turn. He ‘s trying to put together all the bits of information he’s gleaned. The spirit could have killed them easily in any number of ways before now- could have left them buried in a snow drift, disposed of Sam while he was unconscious, or simply exerted his full strength and thrown the spear at one of them to skewer them from a distance. But he’s left them alive, given them weapons, healed them so they’re well enough to fight. There’s something he’s not getting here.  
  
  
He’s not quite sure how he’s analysing this while an old-style warrior is attempting to run him through, especially when with awful intent, the spear connects with him, the flat of the blade smacking into his ribs and making him groan, because Jesus Christ on a stick that hurts. He manages to get his own spear up in time to avert a second stroke, rolls away on the packed snow, and hears Dean engage again, giving Sam time to get back on his feet. There’s one thing running through his mind though. That hadn’t been a killing blow. He’d been smacked with the flat of the spear- hard enough he suspected to break a rib or two, but it could just have easily been the point that passed through his ribs.  
  
  
He’s starting to suspect that this isn’t killing, it’s about winning. Maybe beating the spirit didn’t have to come in the form of taking it’s head, but demonstrating their worth to face him. Unfortunately Dean doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, and was still vainly slashing away, and Sam is almost a hundred percent sure that that wasn’t the way to go about this.  
  
  
There is a memory itching away at his mind, ninth grade history, listening hard and knowing there was going to be a test on it at the end of the week. Mrs Evans in her perpetual checked suits, permed hair crisp and hard like a helmet, and as he rolls away from another powerful thrust, he struggles to grasp hold of it, knowing that it’s important. She’s standing by the blackboard in his mind, but she’s not writing on it.  
  
  
“Counting coup,” she tells them all. “Whole battles were won this way. It’s how you demonstrated your skill, your bravery, your mercy. It would leave an enemy chastened but not dead, and it was considered an essential battle art.”  
  
  
Sam is parrying now, being driven back against the snow as Dean circles around trying to get a chance to throw his spear. The cold is striking again, freezing him until even his brain feels heavy and slow, his hands like lumps of ice as he raises his spear to block. It’s an odd looking spear, part of him notes indifferently. Half of it is almost flat rather than sharp, and at first he wonders if they’re being cheated.  
  
  
And then it all comes together and he _understands_. “Dean,” he calls out. “Now.”  
  
  
With no hesitation, Dean musters all his strength and strides forward to engage, knowing that Sam has something in mind. Sam pulls together every sliver of what remains of his own energy, begs _something_ that he’s guessed right, and lunges forward, flat of the spear toward the spirit and lands a glancing blow on his shoulder- a deliberate touch with no harm intended or done.  
  
  
The huge man freezes, and Sam backs right away. He knows instinctively the other man had been mostly toying with them, at most been mildly perturbed by their attempts to hurt him. It wasn’t possible for it to be otherwise- the other man/being/god was simply too big, and took no hurt from the snow and the cold. Dean isn’t taking advantage of the lull either, he’s still standing there, and Sam carefully slides over to stand next to him.  
  
  
The snow-being tosses back his head and laughs, as he leans on his own spear. Sam can’t quite understand him, it’s like the words are just out of reach. But he catches the surprise, the satisfaction, and the pleasure, he doesn’t need the words for those. The surprise is strong enough that he suspects the other hunters who had undergone this ordeal before had not generally figured it out. There’s a sense of pride emanating as well, and the spirit nods to them, and says only one word clearly. “Kabibonokka.”  
  
  
Sam goes weak with relief, barely manages to hold himself upright, fights the urge to lean on Dean. The cold is flooding through him even quicker, and he can’t help thinking longingly of the fire down in the cavern below. He barely understands the next thing the snow-being does, just feels the solid weight of Dean’s arm slide around him, as cold as he is, but even the heaviness is comforting. The spirit clicks his fingers, and passes his hand in front of him briefly. Then he nods once more, and something like pride burns fierce in Sam’s chest and okay that’s pretty weird.  
  
  
What’s even weirder is that in one dizzying moment they’re back in their car, and there’s no snow. Well some snow, but nowhere near the quantities that had surrounded them only one moment before. Nor are they in the middle of a road to nowhere, they’re pulled up on the side of the road, in the middle of a town and it’s morning. Passing motorists are looking at them strangely, and one man pulls up his car to ask if they need a hand jumpstarting. Dean says thanks, but that they should be good, then turns and stares at Sam. No need to ask if it was all a dream, they’re still so cold that it’s unbelievable. Sam can’t feel most of himself anymore.  
  
  
Even after they’ve used the last dribble of fuel to get to the gas station and refuel they’re still freezing, and bone-tired. The first motel they find, the clerk looks at them dubiously. “No check-in before three,” she says, eyes going automatically to their meagre bags.  
  
  
Dean lets Sam catch this one, heads over to the motels selection of business cards and leaflets. Sam smiles at the clerk though the effort almost hurts his face. “Please,” he says. “We just need somewhere to crash for a few hours. It’s been a rough night.” He doesn’t need to fake the exhaustion in his voice, and she glances over at Dean, who looks like he might fall asleep where he ‘s standing, and hesitates.  
  
  
“Did you get caught in the snow?” she asks, and he nods with a rueful smile , and finally she smiles back at him. “The house-keeping hasn’t been round to all the rooms yet,” she says, “but wait a moment.” She calls through to somewhere else in the building, explains the situation, then leans under the desk and snags a key to room number 14. “You’re in luck,” she says. “It’s sort of a busy season for us, so we don’t have many rooms free as it is. But a couple checked out really early this morning- I think they had a fight, and housekeeping’s changed the sheets already.”  
  
  
Sam thanks her profusely, and pays over the cash, before they head on up. She calls after them that she’s asked housekeeping to knock up the thermostat, and when they get to the room, it’s already beginning to heat up surprisingly fast. There’s only the one bed, but right now Sam could curl up on the floor he is so tired, and compared to the back of the Impala it is a fucking paradise of space. He’s torn between a warm shower and between falling onto the bed. Dean makes the decision first, strips off as fast as he can make his clumsy hands work and crawls under the blankets.  
  
  
“First one on the bed gets the blankets,” he says with conviction, and he’s already beginning to wind them around himself. Sam opts for the shower, can’t take hot water, but lets the warm water start to thaw him out. His hands and feet hurt but they look fine if you ignore the redness, and he’s fairly confident they’re going to be okay. When he gets into the bed, Dean’s still colder than he is, and Sam yanks the blankets away and gets closer, lets the warmth from the shower and from the room at large warm him up. Dean turns to face him, lips still pale from the cold.  
  
  
“Fucking bastard,” he says with no heat. “Always so warm.”  
  
  
“If you hadn’t gone straight for the bed, you’d be warmer,” Sam points out, only a little smugly. He throws an arm across Dean, and lies there. Suddenly he’s very aware of his nakedness, and of Deans, and it’s freaking him out just a little. He tries not to move too close, but Dean ignores that, steals his warmth as best as he can, and Sam can feel himself drifting off, the heat working its way through him, melting the ice coldness in his core. He doesn’t even know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the alarm clock on the side of the bed tells him it’s past 2pm, and every inch of him feels warmed through.  
  
  
He’s lying there drowsing, just enjoying the novelty of a clean soft bed, and for the first time _really_ understanding why lizards love the sun, when he gradually becomes aware that Dean is drooling on his shoulder, and is in fact pressed up close enough along the line of his back to be able to drool on him. His first reaction is panic, the second is acceptance. Dean expands to fill the space he’s in, and Sam finds a weird sort of comfort in knowing that Dean is the only person who can slip under his defenses, and get so close to Sam without waking him. He relaxes back into it, and Dean throws an arm around his ribcage which definitely causes a twinge. Still, if the price for getting out of last night alive is a cracked rib or two, he really isn’t complaining.  
  
  
He can feel when Dean wakes up, the tension in his arm and then the deep steady breath out like he’s okay with this at least for the moment. Sam still doesn’t want to move and not just because his ribs hurt. The wintry sunlight is flooding in through the window and it’s a sharp clear day outside. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, and it’s been too long since he’s had anything like this.  
  
  
They don’t have to do this. They’re warm now, not huddled in the back seat of the Impala. There’s no reason for it, no necessary force driving them both closer. They just want it, and Sam savours that for a moment. It’s rare that they get what they want with no strings attached and he intends to make the most of it. Later he’ll get up and browse the web, find the details of whatever it was that had called itself ‘Kabibonokka.’ They’ll get food, probably pretend this didn’t happen, that whatever this strangeness was that had suddenly sprung up between them didn’t exist. Maybe get drunk later in celebration of still being alive.  
  
  
But for now he gets this, warmth around him, touch that he didn’t even realise he’d needed. He turns his head right back to try and catch a glimpse of Dean’s face. He doesn’t think Dean’s freaking out- he’s still loose and relaxed, but seeing his face makes him feel better about it still. Dean’s eyes are open, close enough that Sam can see everything about them. The interplay of colour, the tiny lines around them, and how they’re looking at him. Like Dean needs this as well.  
  
  
He takes a deep breath and does the scariest thing of his life. Rolls over until they’re face to face, far too close for comfort. Doesn’t apologise or shift away. Dean’s still calm, doesn’t move either. That’s when Sam can acknowledge something he’s tried not to think about for a very long time. That he could lean forward, close his eyes and kiss Dean, and Dean probably won’t headbutt him hard enough to break his nose. He thinks about it for a moment, as the lassitude flows through his limbs again, holds the thought in his mind like a beacon, and Dean does it for him. Kisses him slowly and gently, and Sam hadn’t ever thought that Dean could kiss like that. Lip against dry lip, like he’s saying something important without words. He lets it happen, all part of the dreamy strangeness of the last day, smiles against Dean, and moves in as close as he can get. Closes his eyes again and thinks about how he’ll kiss Dean properly when they’ve both had a chance to brush their teeth. For once, they’ve got time.  
  



End file.
